"Nothing at all," he said. "We are Boy Scouts, and we are not allowed to take pay for doing good turns."
"But if you are going to Belden—" Specs began insinuatingly.
"I'm not," said the young man.
"If you are," Specs persisted, "or if you could go there, we'd like to be taken along."
"Well, I'm not," said the young man again, "and I can't." He said it very decisively. "I'm much obliged for your help, but I can't pay for it—that way." He smiled a little derisively, stepped on the self-starter, and shot the car at the long hill down which the boys had just come.
"I hope he gets stuck again," snorted Specs, looking at the swirl of dust that marked the young man's going. "I hope he breaks a steering knuckle and six spokes, and has nineteen punctures."
"No, you don't, either," Bunny put in. "You're wrong and he's right. Do you realize, Specs, that this is the first time in all our trip we have given a wrong impression of the Boy Scouts? That man thinks we did him a good turn in the hope of a reward; he'll think we always want some kind of pay when we help somebody out. Well, we don't; and what's more, we're going to stop making people think we do."
In the face of this gentle reproof, Specs had nothing to say. When they resumed their hike, he fell in at the rear and seemed to be pondering the matter. Opposite the next farmhouse, he drew up to the patrol leader and said, in a nonchalant way. "All right, Bunny; I'm cured." Then, to prove it, he raced into the yard and pumped a trough full of water for an old lady, and raced out again to the Scouts before she had time to thank him.